The Endless Knot (27 page)

“Closer!” I shouted to the helmsman. “We must help them!”

In the same instant, an eel-like hump surfaced before the prow. The ship struck the afanc and shivered to a halt, throwing men onto their hands and knees. Winding a rope around my metal hand, I leaned over the rail and, taking my spear, drove the blade into the slime-covered skin. Blue-black blood oozed from the wound.

I withdrew the spear and struck again, and then again, sinking the blade deep. On the third stroke I drove the iron down with all my strength. I felt the resistance of hard muscle, and then the flesh gave way and the spearshaft plunged. The great bloated body twitched with pain, almost yanking my arm from its socket. Black water appeared below me; I released the spear just as Tegid snatched me by the belt and hauled me back into the boat.

Others, quickened by my example, began slashing at the afanc with their weapons. Wounds split the smooth skin in a hundred places. The gray-green seawater soon became greasy with the dark issue of blood. Whether the monster felt the sting of our blades, or whether it merely shifted itself in the water in order to concentrate its attack, I do not know. But the afanc hissed and the wounded hump sank and disappeared. The warriors raised a war cry at their success.

Meanwhile, Cynan and his men, clinging to the rails, loosed a frenzied attack upon the beast's head and throat. I saw Cynan balancing precariously on the tilting prow. He lofted his spear. Took aim. And let fly. He groaned with the effort as the shaft left his hand. The spear flew up and stuck in the center of the afanc's eye. The immense snaky head began weaving from side to side in an effort to dislodge the spike.

The men cheered.

The praise turned to shouts of dismay, however, as the afanc reared, lifting its odious head high above the water. Its mouth yawned open, revealing row upon row of teeth like sharpened spindles. Warriors scattered as the gaping maw loomed over them. But several men stood fast and let fly their spears into the pale yellow-white throat.

Hissing and spitting, the awful head withdrew, spears protruding like bristles from its neck. The ship, still caught in the afanc's coil, heaved and shook.

We were still too far away to help them. “Closer!” I shouted. “Get us closer!”

Cynan, clinging desperately to the rail, shouted for another spear as the afanc's head rose to strike again.

“Closer!” I cried. “Hurry!” But there was nothing we could do.

The afanc's mouth struck the ship's mast. The crack of timber sounded across the water. The mast splintered, and the ship rolled, spilling men and horses into the froth-laced waves.

Amidst the screams of the men, I heard a strange sound, a dreadful bowel-churning sound—thick, rasping, gagging. I looked and saw the top half of the ship's mast lodged sideways in the afanc's throat. The terrible creature was working its mouth, trying to swallow, but the splintered timber had caught in the soft flesh and stuck fast.

Unable to free itself, the afanc lashed its hideous head from side to side, thrashing in the water like a whip. And then, when it seemed the ships would be dashed to bits by the flailing head, the bloated body heaved and, with a last cataclysmic lash of its finless tail, the beast subsided into the deep. The two ships nearest to it were inundated by the water and near to foundering, but turned and steered toward the shore. The last ship, swamped in the heavy chop, nearly capsized.

We drove toward Cynan's vessel and aided those we could reach. Even so, three horses drowned and a dozen men had a long, cold swim to shore. We were able to save the damaged ship, but lost the provisions.

When the last man had been dragged ashore, numb with shock and half-frozen, we gathered on the shingle, mute, as we gazed out over the now-peaceful bay. We made fast the ships as best we could and then withdrew further up the coast, well away from the afanc's bed, to spend a sleepless night huddled around sputtering fires in a forlorn effort to warm ourselves.

Sleet hissed in the fitful flames, and the wet wood sizzled. We got little heat and less comfort for our efforts, and as the sun rose like a wan white ghost in a dismal gray sky, we gave up trying to get warm and began searching the shoreline for signs of Goewyn, Tángwen, and their abductors. Discovering no trace of them, we settled for finding our own way inland.

“
Clanna na cù,
” grumbled Cynan, mist beaded in his wiry hair and moustache. “This place stinks. Smell the air. It stinks.” His nostrils flared and he grimaced with distaste. The air was rank and heavy as a refuse pit.

Tegid stood nearby, leaning on his staff and squinting sourly at the dense tangle of woodland rising sheer from the narrow beach like a gray wall. The strand was sharp with shards of flint. Dead trees lay on the shore like stiffened corpses, shriveled roots dangling in the air. “We should not linger here,” he said. “Our coming will be marked.”

“All the better,” I remarked. “I want Paladyr to know we are here.”

“I was not thinking of Paladyr only,” the bard told me. “He may be the least of our worries. I sense far worse trouble awaiting us.”

“Bring it on,” Alun declared. “I am not afraid.”

Tegid grunted and turned a baleful eye on him. “The less boasted now, the less you will later regret.”

Shortly after, Garanaw returned from his foray up the coast to report that he had found a stream which would serve as a path inland. Cynan proposed a plan to make for the hills we had seen from the ships; from the vantage of height we might discern the lay of the land and espy some sign of the enemy habitation.

The evidence of hoofprints, beacons, and the grooves of ships' keels left little doubt that Paladyr had the help of others. From the heights we could easily spot the smoke from a campfire or settlement. It was an extremely slender hope resting on the narrowest of chances, but it was all we had. So we pursued it as if we were sure of success.

Drustwn returned from a survey of the coast to the south. “The land rises to steep cliffs. There is no entry that I could see.”

“Right. Then we go north. Lead the way, Garanaw.”

We moved off slowly, following Garanaw's lead. Bran and the other Ravens walked with him, Cynan and his war band followed them in ragged ranks, and Tegid, Scatha, and I came next, followed by six warriors leading the horses in a long double line. The wood lining the shore was so close grown and thick there was no point in riding. We would have to go on foot, at least until the trail opened somewhat.

The stream Garanaw had seen turned out to be a reeking seepage of yellow water flowing out of the wood and over the stony beach to slide in an ochre stain into the sea. One sniff and I decided that it was the run-off from a sulphur spring. Nevertheless, the water had carved a path of sorts through the brush and undergrowth: a rough, steep-sided gully.

With a last look at the dead white sky, we turned and headed inland along the ravine. Undermined trees had toppled and lay both in and over the gully, making progress tortuous in the extreme. We soon lost sight of the sky; the ceiling above was a mass of interwoven limbs as close and dense as any thatch. We advanced with aching slowness through a rank twilight, our legs and feet covered in vile-smelling mud. The only sound to reach our ears was the cold wind bawling in the bare treetops and the sniffling trickle of the stream.

The horses refused to go into the wood, and we had barely begun when we were forced to stop while a score or more of the animals were blindfolded. Calmed in this way, the lead animals proceeded, and the rest allowed themselves to be led.

We toiled through the day, marking our progress from stump to broken stump of fallen trees. We ended the day exhausted and numb from slipping and sliding against the sides of the gully and climbed from the defile to make camp. At least there was no shortage of firewood, and soon there were a good many fires ablaze to light that dismal day's end.

Tegid sat a little apart, bowed over his staff. His thoughts were turned inward, and he spoke no word to us. I thought it best not to intrude on his musings and left him to himself.

After resting, the men began to talk quietly to one another, and those in charge of the provisions stirred to prepare supper. I sat with Scatha, Bran, and Cynan, and we talked of the day's progress—or lack of it.

“We will fare better tomorrow,” I said, without much conviction. “At least, we can do no worse.”

“I will not be sorry to get out of this putrid ditch,” Cynan grumbled.

“Indeed, Cynan Machae,” Alun said, “the sight of you struggling through the muck is enough to bring tears to my eyes.”

Scatha, her long hair bound in tight plaits and tucked under her war cap, scraped mud from her buskins with a stick as she observed, “It is the stench that brings tears to
my
eyes.”

Our gloom lightened somewhat at that, and we turned our attention to settling the men and securing the camp for the night. We ate a small meal—with little appetite—and then wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and slept.

The next day dawned wet. A raw wind blew from the north. And though it was cold enough there was no snow—just a miserable damp chill that went straight to the bone and stayed there. The following day was no different, nor was the one after that. We slogged along the bottom of the defile, threading our way over, under, and around the toppled logs and limbs, resting often, but stopping only when we could no longer drag one foot in front of the other.

The ground rose before us in a steady incline, and by the end of the third day we had all begun to wonder why we had not reached our destination.

“I do not understand it,” Bran confessed. “We should have gained the top of this loathsome hill long since.”

He stood leaning on his spear, mud and sweat on his brow, breecs and cloak sodden and filthy—and the rest of the noble Raven Flight were no better. They looked more like fugitives of the hostage pit than a royal war band.

None of us had shaved in many days, and all of us were covered in reeking mud. I would have given much to find a suitable trickle or pool to wash away some of the muck. But both this and the summit eluded us.

I turned to Tegid and complained. “Why is it, Tegid? We walk a fair distance every day, but have yet to come in sight of the top.”

The bard's mouth twisted, as if with pain, as he said, “You know as much as I do in this accursed land.”

“What do you mean? What is wrong?”

“I can see nothing here,” he muttered bitterly. “I am blind once more.”

I stared at him for a moment, and then it came to me what he meant. “Your
awen,
Tegid—I had no idea . . .”

“It does not matter,” he said bitterly, turning away. “It is no great loss.”

“What is wrong with him?” asked Cynan. He had seen us talking and had joined me just as the bard flung away.

“It is his awen,” I explained. “It is no use to him here.”

Cynan frowned. “That is bad. If ever we needed the sight of a bard, it is here in Tir Aflan.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Still, if wisdom fails, we must rely on wits and strength alone.”

Cynan smiled slowly. He liked the sound of that. “You make a passable king,” he replied, “but you are still a warrior at heart.”

We made camp in the dank wood and rose with the sun to renew our march. The day was a struggle against tedium and monotony but at least it was not so cold as previous days. In fact, the higher we climbed, the warmer the air became. We welcomed this unexpected benefit and persevered; we were rewarded in the end by reaching the top of the hill.

Though the sun had long since given up the fight, we dragged ourselves over the rim of the hill to a level, grassy place. A sullen twilight revealed a large, flat clearing. We quickly gathered firewood from the forest below and built the fire high. Bran cautioned against this, thinking that the last thing we needed was a beacon to alert any enemy who happened to be near. But I judged we needed the light as well as the warmth and did not care if Paladyr and his rogues saw it.

As my wise bard had already warned, however, Paladyr was the least of our troubles—as the shouts of alarm from the pickets soon proved.

20
T
HE
S
IABUR

I
n the time-between-times, just before dawn, the horses screamed. We had picketed them just beyond the heat throw of the campfire, so the flames would not disturb them. As we were in unknown lands, Bran had established a tight guard on the animals and around the perimeter of the camp as well.

Yet the only warning we had was the sudden neighing and rearing of the horses—quickly followed by the panicked shouts of the sentry.

I had my spear in my hand, and my feet were already moving before my eyes were fully open. Bran was but a step behind me and we reached the place together. The guard, one of Cynan's men, stood with his back to us, his spear lying abandoned beside him on the ground.

The man turned toward us with an expression of mystified terror. Sweat stood out on his brow and his eyes showed white. His teeth were clenched tight, and cords stood out on his neck. Though his arms hung slack at his sides, his hands twitched and trembled. “What has happened?” I asked, seeing no evidence of violence.

By way of reply the warrior extended his hand and pointed to an angular lump nearby. I stepped nearer and saw what, in the cold light, appeared to be nothing more than an outcrop of rock . . .

Bran pushed forward and knelt for a closer look. The Raven Chief drew a long, shaky breath. “I have never seen the like,” he said softly.

As he spoke, I became aware of a sweetly rancid smell—like that of spoiled cheese or an infected wound. The scent was not strong but, like the quivering guard, I was overcome with a sudden upwelling of fear.

Get up! Get out!
a voice cried inside my head.
Go! Get away from here
while you can.

I turned to the guard. “What did you see?”